


Stoner Brett/Lauren Zizes

by astigmaticambition



Category: Glee
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astigmaticambition/pseuds/astigmaticambition
Summary: Lauren and Brett get stoned then have sex.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a few small fics I'll be taking off my soon-to-be-deleted LJ. Originally posted Oct. 19, 2013.

Brett sits on a folding chair in the corner. After Tina ran off stage, no one noticed him crawl away. The band started playing again, as if nothing had happened. His senior year, he gets elected Prom King, it turns out to be a joke. Then the girl he's supposed to get at least one dance with gets drowned in red slush and her Glee Club friends kiss it better with the power of song. 

And Brett's stuck in the corner, no one to dance with. 

He knocks back the rest of his un-spiked punch. If Tina can have a good time after that nightmare, maybe he can too. He tosses the crown at a Cheerio, and leaves the room. 

Out the auditorium doors, the night is cold and there's a heaviness to the air, like the threat of rain. But the clouds don't totally obscure the full moon. This is auspicious. Brett always felt sanest when everyone else was going crazy. 

Crazy. Crazy was what was happening back inside. Out in the dark, his mind is clearing. Dangerous. With a clear mind, wounds sting and burn. Better to soothe with smoke, and time will heal. 

In the parking lot, he finds salvation. There's a girl standing beneath a far lamppost. She's trying to blow smoke rings but hasn't got the hang of it. Still, he understands the tight O of her pink lipstick. 

“Your Highness, congrats.” She passes him the joint.

“Hi, Lauren. You saw?”

“Yeah. That Carrie thing is so cliché. I'm not impressed.”

“Cheerleaders, what do you expect?”

“Dude, Quinn Fabray: wheelchair scandal. Lucy Caboosey. She had a baby her sophomore year.” 

“Preggo prom queen's pretty cliché.”

“True, true.” Lauren chuckles. They pass the joint back and forth until Lauren stubs in out on the bottom of her shoe. His head still hurts from getting hit by the bucket. He need something more, maybe something stronger. Lauren's eyes glow green under the light. 

“Did you drive here?” 

“Naw, rode with the Single Girls. Don't worry- I actually voted for Neck Brace.”

“She's cute, but won't let me near her prescription shit.”

“Sucks.”

“Want a ride back to my place?” There's a couple propositions here, but Brett isn't sure which one he's implying. Either is good, both is better.

“What about your parents?”

“They won't be home til the bars close.”

“Right on.”

Brett leads her to his car and ignores the way she frowns at him. There's an easy-to-draw line between his parent's social drinking and his own drug of choice, but Lauren Zizes is not the person he's gonna talk about that with. 

They're not that close. They only met after she started dating Puck and hanging out in the same basements as him. Puck's gone, but Lauren still comes around sometimes. There's a rumor her brownies are baked in Jesus's own cake pan. Brett started that rumor. That's how good her cooking is. 

They're friends, maybe. But they're never been alone together. She's never been in Brett's house. Hell, she's never seen Brett's car, and here they are, approaching the silver Prius. 

“Uh, my parents got it for me. Used. I didn't pick it out.”

Lauren whistles. “Still, it's a nice ride.”

“It's no wizard van.”

“Talk about cliché. I always pegged you for a station wagon kind of man.”

“Well, it is a hatchback.”

“Close enough.”

He'd be more embarrassed by the lifestyle and the money that the car reveals, but he's got enough weed in his veins that   
he's starting not to care, and she's gonna see the house soon anyway. 

He's a really good driver, mostly because he doesn't want to give anyone a reason to pull him over. At the house, he doesn't bother with a grand tour, letting the Pier 1 Imports furnishings speak for themselves. Only his bedroom is safe, tie-dyed tapestries and Bob Marley posters hanging like sentinels over every inch of the walls. Charlize Theron hangs on the piece of ceiling directly above his bed. He can't go having sex dreams about Che Guevara after all. 

Lauren pulls a baggie out of her bra, handing it to Brett, with her eyes on his bookcase. 

“Closet nerd?”

“What of it?” Just give me 20 minutes, then we can pretend to talk about it.

Blessedly, she shrugs. He pulls the bong out from under his bed, and they sit on the floor, legs crossed, like a two-person Spin The Bottle. She takes off her shoes, then it's a chain reaction, they remove an item of clothing with every hit, until he's in socks and a bow tie, and she's in her bra and no panties, and there's music spinning on his record player, but he can't remember putting anything on. 

“Hey, dim the lights or something.” Lauren's voice calls to him. Maybe she says it, or maybe he's psychic. He's reading her thoughts, and her mouth just happens to be moving in time. Brett switches the regular lights to his UVs, and half his room starts glowing. The posters move in neon green and pink squiggles but Lauren becomes the moon. Her pale skin turns an eerie purplish-grey, and her bra glows such a bright white Brett casts his eyes away. They land on his bed.

Is this seductive? Caribbean drums fill his head, and the whole world looks alien. Surely Lauren feels the same. But it must be working for her, because she's removed her bra and her breasts press heavy and soft against his chest and suddenly she's kissing him and he's still standing there in his socks and bow tie. She uses the tie to pull him with her and collapse them on the bed. 

They kiss, slow and lazy, not doing much with their naked bodies at all. He's hard, yeah, but it's secondary to how her skin feels on his hands, and he wonders if they can synch their heartbeats to the music. Charlize watches them, but doesn't say a word when Lauren starts to blow him. 

“Hey. Hey stop that. This isn't all about me.”

Brett's feminist contribution to the world is making sure all his hook-ups know they deserve orgasms too. He guides her onto her back, then kneels above her, surveying the landscape. He squints and taps a finger to his lips. She glares at him, confused and impatient. Most guys would focus on just her breasts, so Brett ignores them. He runs his runs his fingers up and down the inside of her arms first. 

“Are you ticklish?” His thumbs graze her ribs.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“It's called 'foreplay', dumbass.”

She laughs at him. So he bites her fingers. That shuts her up. She seems to get it now, so he moves down to her belly. Girls are so insecure about this part, Brett doesn't get it. Bellies are so soft and plush, they're awesome, but dangerous, especially when he's high. He wants to just bury his face in her squishyness and take a nap or something. But that would be counterproductive to the sex thing, and also she would kick him in the head, so he doesn't. He strokes her sides and nibbles around her bellybutton. She laughs again, this time it's a good laugh, the breathless kind that urges him lower. He brings her knees up and spreads her legs, mentally high-fiving himself when he sees how wet she is. 

“Stay like this.” He caresses the back of her thighs. It's another landscape moment. He brushed his thumb against her clit and ever-so-lightly on her labia. She whimpers. This is gonna be awesome. He lies on his stomach and kisses his way to her pussy like a fucking tease. Another place he could snuggle down and nap in. He goes slow at first, long drags of his tongue barely any fingers, until she opens up hot and loose, and her thighs clamp around his head when he finds her g-spot. He doesn't stop until she grabs his hair and pulls him off.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Well, hopefully, it was an orgasm.” 

She's red-faced and shivering. Her face looks wet- did she cry? 

“Shit, yeah. Where'd you learn how to do that?”

“Back of the Prius.”

“I'll send Toyota a thank-you card.”

Brett licks his lips. His erection taps against her ankle. 

“Do you have any condoms?”

“They're cherry flavored.”

“Ugh, never mind. Give me a minute.” She pants at the ceiling, still coming down. Brett cuddles her side, patiently waiting his turn. He draws her name into her shoulder with his fingers. L-A-U-R-E-N. It takes him by surprise when her hand wraps around his cock. All the happy tingles in his skin converge in one place. She turns on her side and they lie face-to-face as she strokes him lazily. There's a moment, when she's not touching him, but when he opens his eyes, she sees she's slicking her hand with the wetness still between her legs, and when she starts again it's better than before. The orgasm builds slow, fighting with the drugs, he fucks her hand in time with the music. When he comes, she wipes her hand off on the socks he's still wearing. He peels them off, along with the bowtie, then pulls the blankets over their bodies. His head is throbbing again, but maybe it's in a   
good way. 

“Won't you parents come home?” She sounds as sleepy as he feels. “It smells like sex and weed in here.”

“They can deal with it.” He kisses her, just a peck on the lips. “Goodnight.”

She smiles. “Yeah, goodnight.”

In the morning, he'll wake up to the music still playing and the blacklight bulbs burnt out, and he and Lauren will sneak out to Waffle House, his parents too hung over to notice, and he'll have officially had the best senior prom of anyone that year.


End file.
